3pm and that **** phone could wake the long dead,
half a mile away buried in the small cemetery
surrounding the quaint stone built church,
nestled next the sea on the road to the one Island shop.
Passing it frequently twice you notice the flowers
and the grey older large monoliths erected over
long dead unknowns, unknown to anybody left living this
side of the boundary wall. Knowing you will take your place
among them one day, and it will come all too soon.
So offering up a small prayer for the dead as you
speed past would seem prudent, if not a pure act
of love, for the repose of their souls, through the mercy of God,
and swapping the ring tone on the phone to a more pleasing sound
would go a long way to achieving that end.